Fix
by homeric
Summary: Zoe Morgan sees a lot more than Carter and Reese thinks she does. Reese/Carter, Finch/Zoe.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: nothing you recognise belongs to me.**

Zoe Morgan isn't sure that she likes the term "Fixer". It's short, to the point and essentially describes what she does, but it could equally be the description of a plumber or an electrician or the man who maintains her house in the Hamptons. Useful occupations all, but none requiring the nuances of her profession. She can slide past security guards with a whisper of silk and a smile when her adversaries are forced to resort to thuggery, she can protect or threaten in the same honeyed tones depending on what she wants. And always, always, she is in control.

So John Reese and his imaginary friend came as a bit of a shock.

The threat to her life wasn't a total surprise. In her line of business enemies are inevitable; she likes to think that she's careful but she isn't infallible and people no matter how much you pay them can always be threatened or bought for a higher price. Virtanen Pharmaceuticals hadn't set the alarm bells ringing but there had seemed something a little "off" when she had taken the job. Perhaps she had gotten complacent about her skills. It's troubling but smart as she is, she's only one woman. Still having her life saved by someone she didn't know, had no leverage over and had no way of reimbursing was one hell of a wake-up call.

Zoe knows that she's beautiful with the same dispassionate acceptance that she knows she's right handed and can't roll her tongue. She likes to dress up and show off her figure, toss her hair and bat her eye-lashes and watch her target drool, but for the most part her face and her body are tools of the job and she's an expert at using them. John Reese however remains impervious to her attempts to charm made first out of guile and then out of curiosity, with, she admits a certain amount of genuine attraction on her part. Reese is a gorgeous man with a dangerous allure that would be intoxicating to most women and is intriguing to her.

But he's not hers and never will be.

Oh she'd toyed with the idea of trying properly to seduce him – the sex at least would have been phenomenal, of that she has no doubt whatsoever. Two minutes in the presence of John and Detective Carter though and she promptly abandoned that little fantasy. They communicated with snarky quips, glared and didn't touch each other. Zoe did her best not to laugh when she watched the pretty black detective check out Reese's backside when he bent down to check the now bullet-ridden apartment of a now deceased banker, and raised an eyebrow at John when he none too subtly made an excuse to touch Carter while opening the door to the crime scene. She herself had played her part in the take-down of the corrupt corporation with style, elegance and aplomb, but she might as well have been invisible for all the notice the pair gave her.

But still... _You win some, you lose some, _and Zoe is nothing but pragmatic. Letting herself out of the penthouse she makes her way gracefully down the hall. She owes John for saving her life and she likes the Detective who had worked with her on the case even though she seemed to be one of those unusual people who still had obvious moral boundaries. Reese had promised her dinner as recompense for her help, and she in turn had offered to take Carter out for a meal so that they could compare notes on their "Enigmatic Man In A Suit." It wouldn't be difficult to make a reservation at La Tre.. no, too over the top. Perhaps Assagi – a little Sicilian restaurant, arrange to meet up with them both and conveniently not show up. She'd arrange for a tab of course, and if the pair of them got their heads out of their asses and ended up in bed afterwards then she'd accept that in lieu of a thank-you card for her help. Orgasms by proxy.

Smiling at the man who almost tripped over his feet to make sure that the elevator door stayed open so that she could enter, Zoe feels the glow of satisfaction suffuse her limbs as potent as any endorphin.

She's never tried to fix a person before – she wonders if it will work.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: nothing you recognise belongs to me.**

Zoe is rather pleased with herself. She likes her job, likes being a couple of steps ahead of her quarry and usually isn't too concerned about the innocence or guilt of the people that she protects. Why should she be? Money is money and leverage is leverage. She's not one to lie in bed and wonder about her immortal soul. Any changes she makes to her life are done because she wants to make them, knights in well tailored suits be damned..

Debts though have to be honoured – that's a code that both thieves and princes, or in this case slightly tarnished princesses hold to though, and it had taken a hell of a lot of work on her part to honour hers. John Reese essentially didn't exist, and really aside from being available when he needed her on a job she couldn't do much for him. Since he didn't want her in a sexual capacity she had at least given him the opportunity to make a move on the woman he did want however. Her accountant is probably still wincing at the bill Reese and Carter had run up on her credit card, but hey, it's only money and her life is worth more than a couple of lobster thermidors and a bottle of champagne. Perhaps they had each other for dessert. The thought makes her smile.

The elusive Mr Reese's boss however. That's a different story and a different debt. John might be sleek and elegant, self possessed and intelligent but Zoe is smart enough to know when someone is being used as a tool for someone else's purposes even before he had started muttering into his ear-piece. Someone sent Reese to save her, ergo she owes that person.

Finding him however was not easy. The people that she hires from time to time are discreet but even her favourite computer hacker baulked when faced with tracking Reese's digital trail. Apparently no-one is that good at concealing their identity. No matter though, sometimes the old ways are the best. Carter was linked to Reese, Reese was linked to his boss. A friend who owed her a seriously big favour eventually tracked her man in a suit to an abandoned library and provided her with photographs of him talking to a short man with sharp features hidden behind round glasses. No name, no identity that provided a hit on any of the search engines she tried legal or otherwise. Eventually after a couple of frustrating days she wrote him a carefully worded invitation to breakfast and posted it through the letterbox of the library. If he met her then she'd buy him coffee, eggs, bagels or whatever he wanted and satisfy her curiosity. If he didn't then she'd go back to the drawing board with at least somewhat more information that she had before.

* * *

Zoe wasn't sure if she really thought the short man with glasses would show. She'd dithered about what venue to pick. Breakfast for her was usually orange juice and toast in her kitchen; going out for it seemed a bit pointless unless grabbing a coffee on the way to the next job counted. Anywhere she went for lunch or dinner didn't open until at least twelve and did people meet up for breakfast at Starbucks? Even if they did she couldn't imagine trying to make even normal conversation amongst the dozens of consumers hurrying off to their jobs.

Eventually she'd settled for a small cafe perhaps five minutes walk away from the library in which her quarry apparently lurked. The waitresses had a seen-it-all -before attitude without being rude and the coffee was hot and strong. Taking a sip she grimaces and wondered why she was there and what she hoped to gain from the meeting if Mr Little Round Glasses decided to show up.

Philanthropy maybe? She's fixed things that should have stayed broken, extricated people who should have been left to rot in the hell holes of their own making. _Zoe Morgan philanthropist_. It had a certain cachet to it, although she's not sure if she'll be adding it to her business card any time soon. Stirring her coffee with a plastic spoon she places it beside the slightly chipped mug and wonders if her need for caffeine outweighed her fear of getting botulism or God knows what from the crockery.

When the man limps towards her and sits down on the plastic seat opposite, Zoe takes a second to gather herself before smiling at him.

He doesn't smile back and for a brief second she finds herself uncertain. It's not only the quiet intensity of his blue eyes but the way in which he is utterly unreadable.

"Ms Morgan".

She doesn't ask him who he is and he doesn't look at the menu before ordering his breakfast when the waitress comes over.

At least a dozen opening gambits run through her mind but Zoe keeps quiet. The man recommends the eggs benedict but she orders a re-fill of coffee and a blueberry muffin instead.

They eat in silence, but when there is nothing but a crumpled napkin on Zoe's plate and half a piece of toast on her guests' she narrows her eyes. "Now that breakfast is over I think that you and I should have a talk."

**A/N Started off as a one shot but I'm going to try and make this a short five chapter fic. Also totally Callih's fault for making me think of kinky Finch ideas. Rating will go up.**

**Carter/Reese, Finch/Morgan. **


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: nothing you recognise belongs to me.**

The man with the glasses doesn't respond to her opening gambit, merely wiping his mouth with his napkin and nodding at the waitress when she passes their table and raising an eyebrow in an unspoken offer of a refill of the glass of water he'd asked for. Zoe takes the time it takes to top up her drink to rethink her approach. The coffee cup is warm, almost too warm in her hands and she's already finished her muffin. Eating with anyone always seems a little too intimate. She's fucked more men than she's made dinner for. On some level she knows that's not exactly healthy but since she's got no interest in the nice husband, two kids and a dog in the back-yard dream then why bother fostering neurosis or spilling her guts out to a shrink?

She takes a sip of crappy coffee and re-evaluates the situation. Coming here was supposed to satisfy her curiosity but she's unnerved and doesn't like it. This was supposed to be a meeting whereby she regained the upper hand, perhaps got some useful information about how exactly Reese got the information to save her from her would-be assassins and settled a debt that she didn't ask to be saddled with in the first place.

The man sat opposite her hadn't said one word to her while he finished his meal and barely looked her way. He's placed his knife and fork tidily on the side of the plate, dabbed his mouth daintily with one of the napkins tucked into the holder nestled by the salt and pepper shakers, and neither engaged in conversation or been so rude as to ignore her completely.

He'd asked her what she thought about the weather and if she thought it would rain tomorrow.

The weather.

Sat opposite Zoe Morgan dressed down as much as she ever was. Subtle but still expensive. Her make-up toned down but still flawless. He barely looked at her, this short man who barely merited a second glance from the waitress.

Perhaps he was gay.

Alright, she might have to re-think her approach. No leaning over "accidentally" to show off her cleavage. Playing with her hair was out as well, as was playing the ingénue. Zoe crosses her legs and smooths three hundred dollars worth of Prada down over her knees.

"We haven't been introduced." She says eventually.

"We haven't, have we. I know your name but you don't know mine." The man moves awkwardly when he finishes off the last of his toast and puts the plate to one side. Something had happened to his neck and either his hip or his leg. Zoe resists the urge to roll her shoulders in involuntary sympathy.

"Am I suppose to hire a hit-man to save your life before you tell me who you are?"

He gives her an appraising look that is wholly male and utterly unreadable. Ok toss out the gay idea and re-think. His hands are deft when he places the napkin by his plate. Slim fingers with well manicured nails. Each movement he makes careful and precise. She wonders if he's that calm and collected in bed.

_Bad idea, Zoe._

Screw her instincts he's got her intrigued now.

"You're the one that initiated this .." He takes a sip from his water and gestures vaguely at the cafe. Blue eyes behind little round glasses watch her curiously. "You can call me Harold, Miss Morgan. I assure you that any attempts on my life would not only be pointless but potentially dangerous. Our mutual friend might take threats to me seriously."

"I expect he would, _Harold_." His eyes narrow a little at her sarcasm and Zoe tries not to look triumphant. "I imagine both he and Detective Carter have better things to do than planning my imminent demise though."

That gets a genuine laugh out of the man and Zoe can't help smiling in response. "You're not going to tell me how you knew someone was out to get me are you?"

He scratches his short hair, making the tufts that crown his head askew. "It's a long story."

"And you're not going to tell me it." Zoe crosses her arms over her breasts. "Honestly?"

"Honestly?" His lip curls quickly in what might have been a promise of a smile. "Honesty is a dangerous trait for a woman in your line of work I would imagine."

"I manage."

"I've noticed."

The waitress clears away their empty plates and glasses and there is brief moment of awkwardness where Harold and Zoe both try and leave the requisite money on the bill she'd left. Eventually he pays, Zoe leaves a more than generous tip, and both of them leave the cafe together.

The city is never quiet but they've missed rush hour. The sky is clear and blue. The air smells like the promise of autumn.

"Would you like to come for a walk with me?"

Zoe looks at the man beside her. He's buttoned up in his waistcoat and shirt like a parody of an English professor caricature in a bad novel. He's too old for her tastes, she doesn't trust him and he's probably a criminal.

"I'd like that." The words are out before she really has a chance to think about them.

Harold takes her to an art gallery not far from where her grandmother used to live. The artist in residence works with glass. Pretty sculptures that gleam in the harsh overhead light. There isn't anyone else around but that's alright. What Harold lacks in physical grace he makes up with in eloquence. He doesn't talk down to her or try and impress her. They argue politely about the virtues of Klimt and Rossetti. Byron and Blake. Artists and writers, things that don't really matter in the grand scheme of things. There's an unspoken agreement that they aren't going to talk about their work, but it's hard not to ask questions

It's also hard not to look. Or understand.

Zoe might have the glossy veneer that for all intents and purposes provided her with a ready made cover-story; look but don't touch, but so did the man beside her. She went with glamour and he went with being utterly forgettable. Two different types of loneliness.

They are about the same height but it's hard for her to work out the exact colour of his eyes.

"You're a strange woman Ms Morgan."

_Fair enough, _but when he takes her hand she doesn't pull away and his fingers feel like they belong between hers.

**A/N who knew that there were that many Finch/Zoe fans out there? (Guest I like "Minch" as an acronym but I bet I'm not the first to write it – there's probably a few stories already written with the pairing! I'm totally calling it "Minch" in my head though).**


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: noting you recognise belongs to me. **

**Please note the rise to an "M" rating for consensual sex.**

"Will you let me make you dinner?" Zoe had been mulling the words over in her head for the past half hour but they sound even stranger coming out of her mouth. Behind her the taxi that Harold had hailed for her provides a background soundtrack of engine noise that cuts across the city's chatter. She's fairly certain that the cabbie is rolling his eyes at witnessing yet another anonymous hook-up.

_Oh Zoe, Zoe, _she can't help thinking. _What are you doing?_

Harold blinks at her and places his hand on the open door of the taxi. When he meets her eyes his expression is curious rather than dismissive.

"You enjoy cooking?" The tone of his voice is mild but Zoe catches the undertones of amusement. "I would have imagined that you employed someone to prepare your meals for you."

"I do." She shifts slightly, places a well manicured hand next to his on the car door. Beside them the empty passenger seats are an unspoken invitation of more than just food. "Sophie has a way with the kitchen and I have a way with the microwave when heating up what she makes." It's a crappy joke and he doesn't laugh. But still... He hasn't made excuses to leave, and so Zoe presses her advantage literally, giving a half step sideways; close enough to be excused for wanting to enter the car while also giving him the scent of her perfume and the faint brush of her body against his. She watches the bob of his adams apple as he swallows hard and doesn't lick her lips in response. _No need to overdo this Zoe. Let him come to you._

Harold gently escorts her into the cab before awkwardly following. He doesn't look comfortable in the seat and doesn't make conversation on the short journey. Zoe doesn't take it as an insult. She doesn't mind watching the city as people hurry home to do whatever normal people do. She doesn't mind the quiet and she doesn't mind the fact that the man beside her keeps glancing at her as though she is a puzzle that is only half solved. When they pull up beside her brownstone she pays the driver and resists the urge to help Harold out of the car. She knows that he wouldn't appreciate it and she knows that he's already far outside whatever constitutes his comfort zone. _Tread lightly Zoe. _The evening is a Turner print of pastel shades and even the dumpster at the corner of the block is bathed in pretty golden light. The night is warm, humid. There will be stars soon but they can wait for later. When Harold kisses her in the elevator Zoe gives a faint moan of satisfaction and the kitchen is bypassed in favour of the bedroom.

* * *

When Zoe wakes her Egyptian linen sheets are tangled around her legs and the room is dark. The alarm clock by the bed glows red; 10:15. _Seemed later._ Her head is muzzy as though she'd been drinking but her mouth isn't dry although her lips are swollen. There's a person next next to her. Harold Finch, obviously still asleep judging by the faint snoring against the back of her neck. Very carefully she rolls over and tries to do inventory on her thoughts. _Not clever Zoe. Where the hell is the end-game with this?_

The man beside her doesn't stir so she takes the time to properly look at him. With his face squashed down into the pillow and his hair all flattened he looks troubled. His eyes move under the thin skin of his eyelids in what must be a vivid dream and the hand resting beside his head twitches. Zoe takes it, twining her fingers with his and squeezing gently. The twitching stops and the man beside her sighs before settling into quiet rhythmic breathing.

_Not handsome,_ Zoe appraises with one who is acquainted with beauty in all of its forms. _A subtle form of attractive however. Put a Whistler against Picasso and the public will always go for the bright colours and ignore the subtleties of an artist equal in talent. _The scars on his hip and neck... Obviously non-negotiable when it came for information there. He'd either tell her or he wouldn't. Whatever limitations he had with movement he made up with imagination. She flexes her hips slightly and feels the stretch of muscles gone unused for too long, the faint ache between her legs. Getting up carefully she goes to the bathroom, shutting the door behind her. Switching the light on she winces at the brightness and relieves her bladder. The image in the mirror over the sink could be captioned "one-night stand" on a polaroid. Smeared eyeliner, hair all over the place. _If she had a teenaged daughter who returned home like this then she would probably be very disapproving_. Zoe makes a face at herself but can't find any expected guilt or regret. There's a mark on her neck where Harold may have nipped at her. It doesn't hurt when she pokes at it and it's covered by her hair, but still.. she's a bit too old for hickeys isn't she? Zoe washes off the make-up, drags a brush through her hair and goes back to bed.

Harold is already awake. Zoe suppressed a smile; if she had thought his expression "owlish" before then watching him wake up redefined it.

"Good morning Ms. Morgan." His words are thick with sleep, and Zoe re-thinks her plan. Pattering on bare feet into the kitchen she snags a glass and fills it with cold water. She gives a side-eye to the kitchen cupboards. If Harold wanted breakfast then either they would go out or order in. She wasn't the obedient little.. whatever they were. Giving the man in her bed the glass she perches on the bed. He wriggles up from the pillows with a wince. Snagging his coat from the chair, Zoe fishes out a plastic container of what looks like painkillers from the pocket and after reading the instructions on the bottle shakes two pills into her palm. Harold takes a deep drink before swallowing the pills and placing the glass on the nightstand.

"Thank-you".

Zoe shrugs, crossing one elegant leg over the other. "I would call this mutually beneficial, wouldn't you?" When he offers her the water glass she drinks from it. It tastes like tap water that she wouldn't usually drink and him.

He's had her twice and still looks nervous looking at her. She's wet without him even touching her.

_Strange silly man. Not remotely her type. _

Zoe takes Harold's hand and places it between her legs. She pushes the heel of his palm against her clit and sighs when he pushes two fingers inside her. Her hips rock involuntarily and when he sits up and pushes her up against his chest she mutters nonsense words when she comes. Whatever it is it's lost in the tangle of her hair trapped between her cheek and his clavicle.

She's careful when she takes him inside her. Letting him go slowly, inch by inch. The stretch of her body is painful and exquisite. The heat of him pushing through muscles long unused. Zoe bucks her hips to meet Harold's thrusts and doesn't kiss him when he comes.

* * *

"It's alright, you know." Zoe looks at the man tangled between her sheets. Despite the fact that she knows practically every inch of him intimately she can't help but look at his narrow shoulders draped by white cotton, the slightly hairy knee poking out from the folds a little further down. He's settled one hand across his stomach and the other is settled at the base of her spine. Barely moving, but, oh when they do those clever fingers...

"What is?" There's no accusation in Harold's voice.

Zoe laughs, turning her face away towards the window. The cotton that encases the pillow wrinkle and so does the fine skin at the corners of her eyes.

"The only cock between my legs was yours, and the only name on my lips was yours." She stretches her arms out above her head, fingers curling around the intricate metal headboard. She stretches, bowing her spine with studied grace and looks at the man replete beside her. "You came when I did, as I see it that's as close to monogamy as we're both going to get. We're both married to our jobs. We're neither what the other wants." She lifts an arm languidly and manages to run her fingers through his hair and gives a brief kiss to his forehead. The angle's wrong and it's an awkward kiss. Underneath the smooth skin of her lips, the lip gloss long since kissed away, his forehead is soft. His eyelashes tickle against her cheek.

"In a fairytale this is where we run away together and get married, " Zoe says ruefully.

"You'd be a terrible wife." Harold's eyes are kind and wistful when he says the words. "But your husband would be a lucky man."

"And you're a great fuck but infuriating." Zoe slips out of his embrace and looks around before she finds her dressing gown and slips it on. The silk is cool and soothing against her skin. It feels like armour.

When both their phones ring at the same time Zoe bites back a quip about the fates playing with them.

**A/N thanks very much ladies Callih and Blacktop for pointing out my (idiotic) mistakes in the previous chapters. I know that this was supposed to be a five chapter story but I think I'll leave it here. Thanks for reading :)**


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: nothing you recognise belongs to me.**

Zoe watches Carter steal another spoonful of apple pie from Reese's plate and bites her cheek so as not to smile. She's fairly sure that John only ordered dessert so that the detective could steal it from him; he's only had a couple of mouthfuls of it and Joss has had the rest, despite her assertion that "She doesn't do sweets." It's cute though, although she is under no illusion that if she were to voice that out loud neither of them would ever speak to her again and she wouldn't put it past Joss to arrest her on some trumped-up charge and leave her in the cells overnight.

What was supposed to be a meeting to discuss a blackmail attempt by Elias on two of rookies in Carter's precinct had unexpectedly turned into what, to the casual observer would look like a double date.

It's extremely unnerving.

It's also kind of nice.

Typically Zoe doesn't "do lunch" - most of the people she meets up with aren't friendly and you can't walk away half-way through without drawing unwanted attention (or bullets) if things go south. This though.. This is different. Easier.

Next to her Harold is dissecting a chocolate brownie with almost mathematical precision and a single-mindedness that she'd grown accustomed to. Zoe reaches over and plucks the wafer from the blob of cream on top of it. When it comes to dessert she's with Joss; if it's on someone else's plate then the calories don't count. He doesn't complain but the quick, quirk of his mouth lets her know that he'll tease her about it later. Knowing him he'll probably deliver a box of ridiculously expensive wafers to her house just to make a point in the next couple of days.

Zoe looks out of the window of the little restaurant. It's one of those places where the food is decent but not exceptional and the neighbourhood is neither dangerous nor exclusive. Average would be the word for it. People wander along the street doing their thing; dusty construction workers, bright-eyed women in cheap clothing made prettier by carefully chosen accessories. A wino sleeps in a fort made of cardboard boxes underneath a bill-board advertising the latest superhero film. She wonders if the people she is with count as being heroes and smiles at the thought of getting Harold into a T-shirt with a superhero logo on it.

His thigh is warm against hers. When she looks at his plate she sees that he's saved the chocolate flake that was on the side of the brownie for her. It's crappy chocolate but she eats it anyway, and when she slides past him to go to the bathroom she isn't surprised when Carter follows. They don't say anything, relieve themselves and wash their hands.

"So..." In the reflection of the bathroom mirror Zoe can see Joss struggling to put into words what she's obviously thinking. "You and Finch , huh?"

Zoe twists her lipstick and carefully re- paints her lips a dusky rose. "You and John." She can see the other woman struggle between being defensive and wanting to talk. The latter wins.

"You set us up on that date at that restaurant, right."

"Assagi. If you want to go back then I don't mind you name-dropping me," Zoe says calmly. "If you have any complaints then I suggest you contact their management. By the way you're welcome."

"I'm not..." Carter's dark eyes narrow before she sighs and tucks an errant strand of hair behind her ear. "What did you get out of it?" she says eventually. "And don't say nothing, because I know a bluff when I see one. Whatever you've got on me I'd rather know about it now."

Zoe shrugs. "I owe him, I owe you and the sexual tension between you two was starting to make my hair frizz. What's he like in bed by the way?"

The pretty detective scowls at her for a moment before giving a huff of laughter. "None of your business. What's little glasses guy like?"

Zoe fluffs her hair and lets Carter out of the bathroom first. "None of your business."

* * *

Zoe had always liked dressing up. Perhaps it had something to do with her history; if you've been brought down, had everything that defines you stripped away then conspicuous decadence is a way of re-defining yourself. She's not so unaware of her own neurosis's that she can't recognise them for what they are however. Prada, Gucci, Burberry... Designer labels mean that you don't have to label yourself – a short-hand for personality. These days she wears what she wants and dresses up deliberately because she likes it.

She likes it when she finds the perfect dress and accompanies Harold on the very rare times that they go out in public. She's always been beautiful but it's never been _fun _before because it's always been a means to the end of whatever gambit she's been playing_._

She likes it when people very obviously look confused at the two of them holding hands together and smiles inwardly with the knowledge that she's the lucky one.

She likes it when Harold takes her clothes off afterwards, sliding his hand down her spine, putting his mouth between her legs and not letting her come until she cries his name. When he takes her it's never graceful but it's real and good and true.

Most of all she likes it when she's curled around him in the darkness and it's too late, or too early to look at the clock. He tells her stories then. Clever things, dangerous things. Sometimes she thinks that he makes up his past just to make her laugh, but that's ok too. There's a lot of herself that she's waiting for the right time to give him too. Harold's heart is always steady and true when she lays her head on his chest and sometimes it's just nice to be Zoe. Understood without having to explain.

**A/N: I know I said that this was complete but re-reading it there was too much left unresolved. Definitely ending here, definitely AU as I can't imagine "Zinch" ever being a pairing in the show and playing fast and loose with POI history. Thanks very much everyone who has read and reviewed – much appreciated. The idea of a double date between Reese and Finch was inspired by HDWren from her review. Thanks lady.**


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